


duong jai

by feralphoenix



Category: Yggdra Union
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-05
Updated: 2011-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-21 01:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lit. "One who climbs inside the heart".</p><p>(Or: why the Emperor's paperwork will never get done, ever.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	duong jai

It is spring and intermittently rainy, the weather not quite yet clear enough to allow for going outside yet not quite unforgiving enough to demand preparation for serious storms, and the hollow between those extremes makes it a good enough day to sit down and do the paperwork as any. After all, it isn’t yet too hot to stay cooped up in one room.

Gulcasa sits in his chair at the handsome desk of dark wood, fingers wrapped in a deceptively light-looking grip around an eagle-feather quill, gold barely visible between the black-red lashes of his eyes as his gaze follows the words on each leaf of paper. The reading glasses he’s come to adopt to help him make out the shapes of characters, long-lensed and gold-framed, sit well on his face and help to bring out a calmer kind of beauty in his half-tamed countenance.

In another chair next to his, Nessiah sits, patiently running an ivory-handled brush through Gulcasa’s waterfall of crimson hair.

“This really isn’t distracting you, is it?”

(although he asks, Nessiah’s voice is quite unconcerned)

For his part, Gulcasa does not even turn to face him. “No. It’s very soothing, actually.”

“I’m glad. You’re so hard on yourself, your hair included; if you don’t take care of it, someone should. It’s so soft once it’s been washed and brushed properly.” So saying, Nessiah smiles and runs his fingertips lightly down the length of Gulcasa’s mane; the individual strands part like silk, like rain, the light transmitted along them shifting so that glints of amber and violet dance through the red like a sunrise.

Gulcasa breathes in, a motion that makes his shoulders and spine rise up against the palm of Nessiah’s hand, pressing into the upward arc of his fingers. Nessiah runs the brush down the length of his hair one last time as Gulcasa settles back to work, then sets it down, weaving lazy intricate patterns in the current of deep red with his hands instead.

And that patient smile faintly curving Nessiah’s lips turns secretive.

He leans in closer as he strokes the lines of Gulcasa’s back, retreating from the dull sort of half-baked chill of the lukewarm rain towards the ever-burning furnace just beneath the Emperor’s skin. Closer to that sweet warmth; closer to that smoky pine bonfire scent that always seems caught in Gulcasa’s hair, closer to the lovely angles of his shoulder and side as he offers the paperwork his grudging attention. Nessiah’s left hand rests small as a child’s on Gulcasa’s shoulder; the pale fingers of his right make their way down the great continent of Gulcasa’s back and then march slowly, softly back up his spine.

Nessiah shifts, half-standing, and leans to a collapse against the near half of Gulcasa’s back as the fingertips of his right hand brush—just a little too well-guided to be casual—against the lines and then the very point of his ear.

All of Gulcasa’s muscles go taut, and he makes a soft sound—not quite a moan, but a little too loud to be a simple _oh;_ there is a tiny distant clatter as the quill he was writing with collapses against the desk, his fingers slackening.

Nessiah smiles and allows his left hand to slide down until it is resting on Gulcasa’s thigh, scoots sideways so that he is bracing himself against Gulcasa and the leg and back of Gulcasa’s chair and can freely lean in to tuck his face into the hollow between the base of the Emperor’s jaw and the strong slope leading from his shoulder down to his clavicle. He brushes his lips quite lightly against the soft skin at the side of Gulcasa’s throat, right on top of where the blood pounds: It is more of a whisper than a kiss.

Gulcasa breathes in, quick and measured and almost pained; Nessiah pushes himself up a bit, and there—redness is spreading under Gulcasa’s skin, brightly flushed from cheekbone to cheekbone, burning in the tip of the ear Nessiah can see. His eyes are closed tightly. Heat is thrumming beneath the fingertips of Nessiah’s right hand as well; he runs them up and over the contours of Gulcasa’s ear, pinching lightly at the tip.

This time it’s not measured, not even a sharp sucking in of air; it’s a strangled gasp that ends in a needy keening sort of noise as Gulcasa squirms in his seat. He is quivering and his hands have deserted paper and quill entirely to grip at the edge of the table like a drowning man clawing for the water’s surface.

“Nessiah—”

“Shh.”

Anxiety in every line of his body, Gulcasa squirms again, turning so that he can look back at Nessiah with rapidly blurring eyes.

“I can’t—”

“Shh. Let me.”

Nessiah turns his lips to the hard contour of Gulcasa’s jawline, breathing lightly, punctuating his movements with light kisses. As he makes his way to Gulcasa’s earlobe and lingers there, closing lips and then teeth around it to another gasp that melds deep into a moan, he plays the fingers of his left hand down the inside of Gulcasa’s thigh. He trails those fingers like feathers, sucks on Gulcasa’s earlobe without biting down—he can feel the tension in the muscle of Gulcasa’s cheek as he runs the thumb of his right hand over the tip of his right ear—and finally cups his left hand between Gulcasa’s legs, palm riding up over the peak his cock has formed under his clothes.

Gulcasa whines high in his throat, shuddering and listing to the left so that his weight rests upon Nessiah’s chest as much as the edge of his desk. Nessiah shifts to support him—to press against him more strongly—his right leg arched up against the small of Gulcasa’s back, almost in the position to wrap around him completely. His left leg cramps; Nessiah leans a bit to the right to put more weight on Gulcasa’s chair instead.

Small movements are all he needs, and so they are all he makes: kneading the point of Gulcasa’s right ear delicately between his thumb and forefinger, not quite grazing his teeth along the left as he continues to play along it with lips and tongue, holding his left hand steady and firm to give pressure and friction when Gulcasa strains his hips forward.

Gulcasa’s muscles tense beneath his skin, then slacken as though they no longer know which patterns of bunch-and-relax cause the right motions. His spine curves up, inward, a retreat from the weight of Nessiah cleaved tight to his back that isn’t a retreat really because it just presses his shoulder against Nessiah’s chest, his groin against Nessiah’s hand. The motion splays his legs further apart. It is as close, Nessiah is fairly sure, as Gulcasa can get to begging while simultaneously trying to keep his ragged breathing from taking a swerve into hyperventilation.

He has no reason _not_ to indulge Gulcasa, and so he runs forefinger and thumb into the fly of his pants and works the button loose with the slightest bit of difficulty. Gulcasa’s body is _vibrating_ under his chest, knuckles white as he grips the table with all his considerable force, and Nessiah lifts his mouth from Gulcasa’s ear to murmur gratitude at how well he’s keeping from squirming.

The only reply he gets is a frustrated needy groan and a shiver that runs tangibly all the way up Gulcasa’s back.

He pushes the heavy fabric of Gulcasa’s long state tunic up, wrestles the twill of his breeches down, and the _pained_ part of Gulcasa’s impatient expression melts into something like relief as he finally stands free of his clothes. Nessiah releases his right ear to better wrap that arm around Gulcasa’s chest, kisses the base of his jawline, and then takes firm hold of the shaft of his lover’s cock.

Gulcasa twitches, a sharp movement through all his body, arching and twisting like a cat. Nessiah spreads his fingers apart slightly, tightens his grip, loosens it, and starts to stroke.

Instantly Gulcasa’s chest begins to heave, dragging Nessiah along with him as his back rises and falls dramatically.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck—”

“It’s all right—”

“—oh, _fuck,_ Nessiah—I can’t—”

Nessiah leans harder, puts more strength into the motion of his left arm, pausing to rub the tips of his fingers in swirls over the head until it feels as if they’ll scald and then sliding his hand down again, squeezing a little, drifting his little finger back down over twill to settle along the gentle swell of his balls still beneath the fabric.

“—It’s all right,” he says, and takes a breath because Gulcasa’s hyperventilation seems to be catching, “it’s all right, it’s all right, I’ll see you through, it’s all right.”

Gulcasa moans and trembles and shakes his head fitfully, but does not argue. He is, in Nessiah’s near-expert opinion, too far gone for that sort of thing. Almost but not quite to stick-a-fork-in-me-I’m-done levels of too far gone, and getting him there is a task that Nessiah will accomplish with all the grace and tenderness he can muster.

It’s as obvious as if a switch has been thrown when at last Gulcasa stops wrestling with himself and gives over to the pleasure. The useless tremor in his limbs vanishes, all that wasted tension channeled into the wholehearted pumping of his hips into Nessiah’s half-clenched fingers. His lungs, his ribcage are going like a bellows with only a quarter of the noise; his eyes are closed, but not squeezed tight, and he seems blithely unaware of the glasses now slid halfway down his nose. It is very _similar_ to the many times when Nessiah has had to coax him through his battles with his blood, desperately sick and obstinate and putting off the necessary bloodletting until the very last second, but also quite different: It is a quite dissimilar type of arousal, and dissimilar too is the warmth—not heat, but warmth—rising off of his body and the rounded angles his back and shoulders fit into, unthinking, sometimes voicing his exhale with “oh” and “please” and “more” in a joyful guiltless sort of way, falling apart neatly and above all else _humanly._

Something inside his chest overcome with a kind of tenderness, Nessiah breathes kisses up the vulnerable line of Gulcasa’s throat and then runs his tongue from the lobe of his ear to its tip.

Gulcasa’s thrusts get tighter and shallower, wordless little sounds rising to his lips, and Nessiah embraces him tightly from behind, sucking on the tip of his ear.

The breath crackles in Gulcasa’s throat and he doesn’t _quite_ squeak as he comes, surging, every muscle straining as he stains the underside of the desk.

And then he relaxes quite suddenly, sagging, holding himself up with hands and elbows, breathing deep and slow. Nessiah moves the fingers of his left hand just a little, a soft and delicate stroke, and pulls back to lean against Gulcasa’s side and shoulder instead.

They sit for a while in comfortable silence as Gulcasa catches his breath at last, Gulcasa’s body loose and warm and free of care, Nessiah smiling, basking in that warmth.

And Gulcasa sits up.

He does not say anything; he simply takes off his glasses, folds the earpieces, and sets them on a side of the desk, sweeping the paperwork piles out of the way until there is a clear aisle of mat and wood in the center.

Nessiah too sits up, and he has enough time to realize and for his pulse to begin racing before Gulcasa turns to him, sets tender hands on his upper arms, and leans in to kiss him.

Gulcasa’s lips are as warm as the rest of him, his eyes mostly closed. Nessiah could drown in the pine bonfire scent of him, sweet and smoky as autumn; could just drown in the way that Gulcasa reels him in gently, exerting barely any force without making any conscious effort. That is one of the things that has always taken Nessiah off guard about Gulcasa, one of the things that Nessiah cannot help but love best—that Gulcasa always considers, always _adjusts_ for him without making a big deal about it, without even thinking about it. Gulcasa _knows_ him, understands him down to his bones, and it terrifies and endears Nessiah in turns.

The kiss breaks for just a moment, and then Gulcasa’s hands have slid underneath his thighs, and he’s being scooped up and set down atop the desk with the utmost care.

Nessiah leans back so that his shoulders press against the wall, and wraps his arms loosely around Gulcasa’s back as warm lips brush the side of his throat where his pulse thrums. “Gulcasa—”

“Sh. It’s all right, I won’t yet, I just want to touch you for a little while.” Gulcasa speaks as though delirious, his eyes half-lidded as he sits back to put them about a foot apart.

And then his hands are sliding down Nessiah’s sides. As he moves them back upwards, his thumbs move in little spirals over the fabric of his robes. The heat, the sensation have warmth rising up from inside his body to meet them, even muffled by his clothes.

Gulcasa leans as if to tuck his face into Nessiah’s shoulder, noses one length of chain aside to kiss his clavicle. The softness of his lips tingles, and Nessiah’s skin prickles, making him want to squirm. He wishes that there were something in easy reach for him to brace his feet against, and settles for pulling Gulcasa closer and framing his lover’s flanks with his calves.

He can’t help but tremble a little as Gulcasa puts both hands on his shoulders, plays his fingers all the way down his arms to skim over his shackles and then touch the scarred skin underneath them. His belly jumps, his blood throbs between his legs, his heart quivers; Gulcasa winds their fingers together and kisses him, and the whimper rises into his throat on its own.

Hearing it, Gulcasa comes up for air instantly, tawny eyes roaming over Nessiah’s expression, searching. It undoes him, that kindness, that care. He can’t say it, and reaches out with shaking hands to frame Gulcasa’s face with them, fingertips splayed against his cheekbones.

“I love you,” Gulcasa murmurs with a quiet kind of fierceness in the words. His eyes are stubborn as bonfire sparks, and he lays his right hand atop Nessiah’s heart, thumb stroking idly side to side.

Hearing things like that, being touched so tenderly—it almost makes him want to cry, and his throat is tight and jagged with the urge. He leans in—how can he not?—to touch his lips to Gulcasa’s forehead in return.

“And I love you.” The words never leave him but with pain. Yet the warmth in their wake soothes. It is madness, and it will be the ruin of him.

There is no time for him to be torn by his emotions, because Gulcasa is smiling that slow sweet smile of unconditional acceptance and warmth and adoration and oh, oh damn it, he really and truly will cry if this doesn’t stop.

And then there isn’t even time to think, because Gulcasa’s hands are on either side of his ribcage, supporting rather than gripping, and the thumb of his right hand and then his forefinger wind in candy swirls up, around, over his left nipple, and that blanks out his mind and arrows straight down into his groin in the most wonderfully awful way. He is left arched up against the wall, head leaned back for Gulcasa to worry the side of his throat with his lips, hands slowly dragging the top of his thin sleeveless robes down to expose chest and shoulders (he shivers a little against the air suddenly touching his skin, and Gulcasa leans in closer immediately, warm, protective), voice useless and the half-erection he’d been building on straining against the fabric of his clothes, aching to be touched.

Gulcasa shifts—moves down—and Nessiah wraps both arms loosely around those broad shoulders as quiet high-pitched needy sounds escape him.

He arches back and breathes, trembles as Gulcasa presses a hot and open-mouthed kiss to his breastbone, leans to run the tip of his tongue over his right nipple as both of those huge callused hands shift and plant themselves over the scarred ruin of Nessiah’s shoulder blades, fingertips dragging down, down as Nessiah quivers and gasps and does not quite squirm.

Further down: Gulcasa kisses him just above the navel, over his thin robes, and Nessiah can feel the heat of him through the fabric and he’s sure if it goes on he’ll go mad—Gulcasa sits up, grasps the sides of his robes and pulls their skirts up in one smooth patient movement so that they’re bunched above Nessiah’s hip bones, and dips once more to kiss his bare skin this time—he pushes his chair back, hitches Nessiah’s legs up, leans in to kiss down the inside of his right thigh, and—

When Gulcasa’s hand finally closes around the base of him, Nessiah sighs; then that hand moves up the shaft to hold on firmly below the head, and Gulcasa just—just kisses him there very lightly and then takes him into his mouth and Nessiah _keens._

“You really don’t have to do this,” he says shudderingly for what feels like the thousandth time, and Gulcasa comes up to look straight at him and smile.

“I know I don’t, but it so happens that I like making you feel good, and I like listening to the way you get when you’re feeling good.” He lifts his free hand, runs the back of his fingers down the contour of Nessiah’s hip, and there’s a fluttery feeling going deep down in his belly and he really wouldn’t mind if Gulcasa just kept doing that forever. “I want you to know I love you, every single damn ornery inch of you. And I know you don’t hate how it feels.”

Nessiah reaches out to brush his fingertips along Gulcasa’s cheek, then eases back against the wall.

When the warm rough weight of those hands settles back along his lower belly and his groin, Nessiah has a moment to think that Gulcasa has gotten skilled at this—and then there’s no more thoughts as kiss after kiss is marched down the length of him and then Gulcasa licks a burning stripe back up. There’s a lurching sensation inside him, and Nessiah just arches backward and tries desperately to breathe.

He is making faint squeaky sounds even before the side of Gulcasa’s thumb fits into the small soft gap between his cock and his balls, and actually lets out something like a sob when Gulcasa’s lips close around him again, all wetness and heat and rough tongue massaging the underside of the shaft, paying special attention to that spot just below the head that drives him absolutely crazy.

He doesn’t want to watch, can’t help but watch, because all through this Gulcasa is staring up at him through blurry lidded eyes, face a little red from arousal and exertion and maybe embarrassment, and his hair is mussed-up in ways that make Nessiah want to wrap his fingers into it, drag Gulcasa down and hold him there and come like a whole cannon battery firing at once because _please yes, please more, for all that you hold holy do not fucking stop that, ever._

Because there are some boundary lines that he does not and will never push with Gulcasa—because he knows with all the heart of him that some scars never fully heal, and because even the heat choking his common sense is built up of nothing but _love, love, love_ —he just reaches out weakly to trace Gulcasa’s cheekbone instead, brushing his hair out of his eyes and tucking it behind his ear, trembling palm resting at his temple.

Gulcasa closes his eyes and moans fervently. The sound vibrates against Nessiah’s skin, and he can feel it in every part of him—as Gulcasa bends to take him as deep as he can without choking, all Nessiah can do is writhe against the wall and gasp.

“I can’t anymore—Gulcasa, I’m going to—”

And Gulcasa raises his head to suck in air and stares right at him, piercing, the gold of his eyes like a beacon at midnight—“It’s all right, go ahead and come—” and he grips the base of Nessiah’s cock again and closes his mouth back around him, worrying that sensitive spot with his tongue—

It breaks him, and some high and desperate sound catches in his throat as his belly seizes up and he shakes and lets loose with all the force in him, and Gulcasa swallows over and over and he can feel that rough tongue and those rough fingers still working, riding out the orgasm with him, and he just can’t deal with the sensation anymore. When Gulcasa finally kisses the side of his flagging shaft one last time and lets go, he sags gratefully against the wall and lets the pleasure echo dully in the void of thought.

There are, he notes as his mind begins to clear, pearlescent trails of semen running from one corner of Gulcasa’s lips down to the line of his chin and even thick spatters on his cheek; because Gulcasa isn’t doing anything about them, Nessiah drags his leaden arm upwards to wipe them away and then lets his hand clatter back to the desk, chains thudding unceremoniously on the wood.

They rest there for a few moments, both panting, Nessiah all but boneless against the wall and Gulcasa crouched tense with need over him, arms braced on the desktop.

Gulcasa sits up and opens a drawer, digs, and closes it again, turning halfway around to pitch the lube bottle onto the mattress, where it bounces. The rumbles of the wood being dragged vibrate against the skin of Nessiah’s thighs and make him shiver.

He’s too wrecked to try to stand; Gulcasa seems to know this without asking, and scoops Nessiah up in both arms. He is carried to the bed and laid out upon it with such tenderness that it seems fissures will spread all across his heart and the pieces will quietly collapse inward. He doesn’t know what to do with the feeling, and so he eases back without protest, watches Gulcasa wrestle off pants and tunic and shirt until he stands there naked and steaming, a sculpture of a man.

Nessiah just lies there absently and stares at Gulcasa breathing, Gulcasa staring back at him. His broad chest is rising and falling vaguely, and there’s sweat forming a faint sheen along his upper arms and clavicle. All that hair streams all the way down to his ankles in brilliant ruby and garnet tones, briefly shining gold here and royal violet there where it catches the light. The pale puffy lines of scars are barely visible along his skin, and even just standing still, the lines of his muscles are hard and defined. He is so hard that the head of his cock almost reaches the line of his navel.

He wants to touch—run his palms over Gulcasa’s chest and the slope of his back, get his fingers into the deep red curls of his pubic hair, find every scar and trace it, acknowledge it. He cannot get up to do so, but he does not need to; after another deliciously torturous moment of mutual staring, Gulcasa leans forward and perches with one leg on the bed and one foot still on the floor, leaning over to pull Nessiah’s skirts up past his navel.

Instead of going straight for exploring Gulcasa’s body with his hands, Nessiah reaches up to touch his face. Gulcasa’s eyelids lower a little; he smiles and cups his fingers around Nessiah’s.

They do not speak. Why would they need words when it’s so obvious what it is they both want to say?

Gulcasa shifts, and the bedsprings creak beneath Nessiah’s back as Gulcasa comes to sit beside him. He dances his fingertips over the hard line of Gulcasa’s clavicle, slips the back of his nails along the Emperor’s flank, traces the sharp bone of his hip with the pad of a thumb. He dips a fingertip into the shallow cup of his navel, drags his hand down along those burgundy curls, and lets his fingers settle and wrap around the burning base of his cock, tugging weakly.

He’s still too jazzed from his last climax to do much, to be able to bear much, but when Gulcasa leans down to kiss his exposed shoulders and his nipples and his belly and run his big hands down the insides of his thighs like silk, it is sweeter than it is overwhelming. Everything—all of it feels wonderful, the kind of wonderful that makes him want to bask and let himself be stroked. It doesn’t burn, or barely, even when Gulcasa crooks his fingers around Nessiah’s still-sensitive penis and strokes in tiny tiny motions until it starts to harden again, his heartbeat gamely speeding back up for round two.

“Nessiah.” Gulcasa murmurs it with love and a kind of reverence, tucking his face into the hollow between his throat and shoulder and kissing there. Nessiah shivers and relaxes and sighs, the fingers of his free hand grasping absently at the sheets.

And Gulcasa’s hands lift up off of him for a few heartbeats. He hears the cap of the bottle being worked, and lifts his unoccupied hand up.

“Pass me that when you’re done with it,” he breathes, and Gulcasa does. Nessiah has enough time to coat the palm of his other hand in oil and resettle it along the hot length of Gulcasa (who makes a humming, appreciative sort of rumble deep in his chest) before wet fingers cup the back of his balls and then slip inside him with great gentleness.

He squirms a little—he can’t help it. The sensation is very ticklish and he doubts that he will ever be able to really get used to it entirely. Nessiah’s breathing goes irregular under Gulcasa’s hot hands and serious stare, and he runs his hand up and over the length of Gulcasa’s cock again and again more for the sake of having something to do with himself than making sure he’s wet enough.

“Get a pillow,” Gulcasa says low and breathless, and Nessiah reaches back aimlessly until his fingers catch at the end of one, dragging it towards him.

Gulcasa’s hands slide underneath his body and lift; Nessiah’s shoulders and upper back come down against the pillow, and his hips come to rest atop Gulcasa’s thighs. There is a pause that feels almost eternal as Gulcasa gives him a long searching look—and then his shoulders set in concentration. Nessiah draws in a sharp breath and lets his upper body loll back against the bed as the head of Gulcasa’s arousal slowly pushes inside him, as the rest of him follows in one smooth careful motion, scalding hot and so thick that for a moment Nessiah isn’t sure if his body can accept it without tearing. It is a little bit painful and entirely too overwhelming, just as it always has been.

That slow inward slide halts with Gulcasa holding onto Nessiah’s hips, bent over him, the muscles in his sides tight and his forehead creased, trembling a little. He’s getting that concerned searching look again, but Gulcasa is inside him and he is entirely overcome, his ability to think shorted out by the heat and the pressure that is almost pleasure and almost pain but not yet either.

Dazed, he struggles to nod; Gulcasa smiles and begins to move his hips, sweetly rocking. His hair sways as he begins to lengthen the strokes, and he balances Nessiah’s legs against his forearms, reaching down to drift his fingers all over Nessiah’s chest and belly to brush about the base of him.

“You’re so warm,” Gulcasa says softly, in between breaths; “tell me where it feels good—”

His hand runs up and over Nessiah’s erection, making him moan thinly, and then plants itself on the mattress. Nessiah crosses his legs around Gulcasa’s back desperately, clinging, clutching weakly at his lover’s arm and the pillow beneath him for—support, balance, he isn’t quite sure; all he knows is that Gulcasa has leaned forward and is thrusting harder at a deeper angle and is pushing more and more against something inside him that’s setting off fireworks of pleasure all through him, making him want to cry out.

“There,” he manages to gasp, “a little harder—” and Gulcasa bites his lip and _does_ and the fireworks turn into supernovas and it is destroying him and he does not care.

He clings to Gulcasa and the bed as the speed of their movements increases. High squeaky noises are escaping him without so much as a by-your-leave, and he can feel his hair and his clothes starting to cling to his sweat, but none of that is quite as important as the heat of Gulcasa’s body on top of him, inside him. Just like before, Gulcasa is wearing an intense expression of struggle, his brow knit and his eyes hazed over; he seems almost as though if he bites his lip any harder he’s going to draw blood. His hips make soft sounds of impact against the back of Nessiah’s thighs—and though it’s hard enough to be audible, it’s not enough to bruise even Nessiah’s sensitive skin.

And then he stops thrusting and kneels still, just sort of rolling his hips in quick stirring motions, panting harshly and moaning low and hard with each exhale, and Nessiah can’t take this, he can’t, _he can’t,_ and Gulcasa gets his fist around his cock and starts stroking it at a counterpoint rhythm, and it is simply too much.

Nessiah arches his back and twists and comes violently and Gulcasa keeps stroking him and doesn’t stop and doesn’t stop and _doesn’t stop_ and it’s too much and he’s too sensitive and he doesn’t have anything left to come with but the pleasure keeps crashing over him like a series of tidal waves, like aftershocks, and he is whimpering senselessly and quaking and even as Gulcasa keeps touching him, the length of Gulcasa’s cock is getting even hotter and swelling and twitching inside him and he will not be able to withstand this—

—and finally Gulcasa throws himself upright and cries out just once, eyes closed tight, hair flying red-gold and brilliant about him like brushfire. Nessiah is left breathless with the force of his orgasm, shaky and weak and flooded with Gulcasa’s come.

They both sort of sag and collapse after that; Nessiah’s hips slip down to the mattress and Gulcasa crashes and sprawls beside him and the both of them stare vacantly and breathe and wait for either the exhaustion or the afterglow to ebb.

After a few minutes, Gulcasa simply closes his eyes.

“The paperwork,” he says, voice long-suffering.

“It can wait,” Nessiah manages to gasp, “as between the two of us I do believe we’ve recently come enough for an entire army.”

Gulcasa curses, and over-warm arms drag Nessiah to his chest. _“And_ I need to wash up again.”

Nessiah smiles and traces endearments over Gulcasa’s skin in the sacred tongue with buzzing fingertips. “Certainly, once we wake.”

He hears Gulcasa sigh; his chest expands and then slopes with it, a bead of sweat traveling the breadth of skin to drip on the sheets. “Enabler.”

Allowing himself to smirk, Nessiah shivers a little and curls up into Gulcasa’s warmth. In their silence, the distant drumbeat of rain fills the room, soothing and soft.

Gulcasa just kisses his forehead absently. They lie there undisturbed for the rest of the afternoon.


End file.
